"
This was the perpetual drift of Mrs. Branston's meditations; and in the
absence of any sign or token of regard from John Saltram, all Mrs.
Pallinson's attempts to amuse her, all the fascinations and
accomplishments of the elegant Theobald, were thrown away upon an
unreceptive soil.
There were not many amusements open to a London public at that dull
season of the year, except the theatres, and for those places of
entertainment Mrs. Pallinson cherished a shuddering aversion. But there
were occasional morning and evening "recitals," or concerts, where the
music for the most part was of a classical and recondite
character--feasts of melody, at which long-buried and forgotten sonatas
of Gluck, or Bach, or Chembini were introduced to a discriminating public
for the first time; and to these Mrs. Pallinson and Theobald conducted
poor Adela Branston, whose musical proclivities had never yet soared into
higher regions than those occupied by the sparkling joyous genius of
Rossini, and to whom the revived sonatas, or the familiar old-established
gems of classical art, were as unintelligible as so much Hebrew or
Syriac. Perhaps they were not much more delightful to Mrs. Pallinson; but
that worthy matron had a profound veneration for the conventionalities of
life, and these classical matinees and recitals seemed to her exactly the
correct sort of thing for the amusement of a young widow whose husband
had not very long ago been consigned to the tomb.
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